The late afternoon sun, a hazy orange, filters through the latticework of a crumbling haveli balcony. Dust motes dance in the golden light. An elderly woman, her face etched with a lifetime of stories, sits cross-legged on a worn rug, meticulously stringing jasmine flowers into a garland. Her hands move with a slow, practiced grace. A single, chipped clay cup of chai sits beside her, untouched. The air is thick with the scent of jasmine, old stone, and the distant murmur of a city slowly settling into evening. A lone, stray cat curls up at her feet, purring softly. She isn’t looking at the flowers, or the cat, or the fading light. Her gaze is fixed on something beyond the balcony, lost in a memory only she can see.